


Butane in my veins

by Builder



Series: Heroverse [12]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bet you didn't see that one coming, Domestic, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Not, Poisoning, Sickfic, Vomiting, like the tail end of a mission fic gone wrong, this is the aftermath though not the actual poisoning part
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-15
Updated: 2018-03-15
Packaged: 2019-03-31 17:45:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13980228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Builder/pseuds/Builder
Summary: After Steve's poisoned on a mission, he heads home to sleep it off.  Problem is, Bucky's already asleep.  For once.





	Butane in my veins

**Author's Note:**

> This was a prompt from Tumblr. Find me @builder051.
> 
> I am super stoked about how this one came out. I hope you like it too.

“I can’t believe it.”  Nat stifles a laugh behind her hand.  “A poison dart?  Really?”

 

“Yeah, yeah, I know.”  Steve rubs the sore spot on the side of his neck and steps toward the door of the medical office.  “I’m fine, though.”

 

Nat narrows her eyes.  “You think you are.  But be smart and let the nurse make that assessment.”

 

“Hey, I’m going,” Steve says.  “Stop worrying about me.”

 

“Who said I was worried?”  Nat smirks.  “But really.  I hope you heed their advice.  And take some Advil if they offer it.  I can practically feel the headache vibes coming off you.”

 

“And stop reading me, too.”  Steve shakes his head, which does in fact hurt.  He pushes open the door.  “I’m fine.”

 

And he is.  Or at least he’s going to be.  The nurse draws a vial of his blood and sends it for immediate analysis.  She comes back a few minutes later with a printed page of results. 

 

“The dose is too low and your metabolism’s too high for it do any real damage,” she reports.  “But you’ve got to burn through it first.  You’ll probably feel sick for a few hours.  Experience some vertigo, maybe nausea.” 

 

She offers Steve four 800mg ibuprofen and a bed for the night.  “It’s late.  And you shouldn’t be driving in your condition,” the nurse says.

 

Steve swallows the pills with a sip of water, but refuses the rest.  “I’ll walk home.”

 

It’s cool and humid out, and the night air feels thick.  The breeze catches the clammy sweat breaking out over Steve’s forehead, and he shivers.  The pain from the puncture wound from the dart creeps around to the back of his neck as his headache travels down from his forehead.  He blinks hard and digs the heels of his hands into his eye sockets.  He’s not sure if his hands are shaking or if his face is, but the coordination is harder than it should be.

 

The walk takes almost 45 minutes.  Ordinarily Steve would make it a fast jog and cut the time to 15, but he’s heavy and slow.  His arms and legs are tired, more so than they ordinarily are after a mission.  It feels like he’s swallowed a few cinderblocks too. 

 

Steve pauses when he gets to the end of the driveway.  He takes a deep breath and fumbles his keys out of his pocket.  He’s only feet away from the front door now, but the whole bank of townhomes looks like it’s quavering.  He tries to focus on the doorknob through his tunneling vision.  Steve knows he has to get inside before he hits the pavement. 

 

It takes him more tries than it should to unlock the door, then he drops his keys with clatter.  “Dammit,” he mutters.  Steve starts to bend over to pick them up, but a sensation of free fall travels from his head to his stomach and back again, and he uses the coat rack to pull himself back upright.  He needs to lie down before he throws up or passes out or both. 

 

As Steve ascends the stairs, it occurs to him that he has no idea what time it is.  He could get his phone out of his pocket and look at it, but it doesn’t seem to be worth the effort.  It’s dark outside.  It’s nighttime.  And Bucky hasn’t come down to greet him. 

 

Steve sighs.  He hasn’t even thought about Bucky.  The noise he’s made dropping his keys and clomping up the stairs, he’s got to be disturbing him already.  Bucky hasn’t slept through the night all week, and he’s not going to be happy with Steve for ruining his chances tonight.   Steve opens the bedroom door, expecting to see him sitting up in bed, rubbing his eyes and probably cussing him out for waking him up

 

But that’s not the scene that meets his eyes.  At first he thinks the bed is empty, but as Steve takes a step toward it, Bucky’s outline swims into focus.  He’s sprawled flat on his back with his head between his pillow and Steve’s, and from the looks of it, absolutely dead to the world.

 

Steve’s heart breaks.  There’s no way he can disturb Bucky when he’s finally sleeping peacefully.  As tired and sick as he feels, Steve decides he’ll take the couch for the night. 

 

Getting back down the stairs in the dark is a task.  He trips down the last few before he finds the level floor off the hallway, but at least the stumble is quiet.  Steve leans on the wall for a second before heading to the living room.  He swallows against a flood of saliva and tries to get his bearings.  It doesn’t work out, though, and he decides it would be wiser to get to the bathroom than the sofa. 

 

Steve slams his knees into the tile just in time to heave violently into the toilet.  He spits a few times and buries his face in the crook of his arm as he waits for the nausea to either abate or surge again.  His abdominal muscles tremble as he swallows instinctively against the next inevitable retch. 

 

It only takes Steve a few minutes to empty out, but dry heaves keep coming.  He can barely catch his breath before his throat constricts into another empty gag, and he breaks off coughing.  Spit dangling from his lip flicks back into his mouth, and the hacks turn to desperate gasps as he inhales it.

 

His vision erupts into starts, and Steve squeezes his eyes shut.  He can feel his body trying to vomit again, but he still can’t get his lungs around a full inhalation.  He grips the toilet seat and prays he doesn’t pass out.

 

A hand comes down on his back.  “What’s going on?”  Bucky sounds a thousand miles away.

 

“I…”  Steve sucks in air, and he feels something rattling disgustingly in his chest.  He coughs again, then lurches forward to spit up a thin stream of bile.

 

“It’s ok.”  Bucky crouches at Steve’s side.  His metal hand is cold against one of Steve’s shoulders, while his flesh one is warm on the other.  “Focus on breathing, ok?  I’m not gonna let you pass out.”

 

It takes all of Steve’s willpower not to hack on whatever crud he’s inhaled.  He manages a shallow breath, then leans back into Bucky’s chest.  “Sorry,” he tries to choke, but it comes out as a single garbled syllable. 

 

“Shh, don’t talk yet,” Bucky says.  He tears off a length of toilet paper and presses it into Steve’s palm.  “You’re gonna be alright.  Just stay calm.  Keep breathing.”

 

“Hm.”  Steve nods.  He tries not to gag as he wipes his lips.  He wants to say more.  To tell Bucky to go back to bed.  Then maybe explain why he’s puking his guts up in the downstairs bathroom at god-knows-what hour.  But he’s too nauseous to open his mouth.  And too tired to do anything else. 

 

“Yeah,” Bucky murmurs, pressing his cheek against the back of Steve’s head.  “I got you.”


End file.
